Date: Tue, 7 Mar 2006 02:44:17 EST
From: EddyRiha@aol.com
Subject: games with stefan 7
The usual disclaimers apply. This is a work of fiction, and those folks
who are prevented from reading such fictional works either by age, by moral
preference, or by law should not read any further.
All of the characters presented here are fictional representations,
including the narrator. Some of the events and characters are inspired by
actual events and people I encountered in my younger days, but the
presentation here of events and characters in no way is meant to portray
actual, historical persons and events. It's just a story.
All stunts were performed by professionals. Do not attempt these at home.
No heterosexuals were harmed in the writing or reading of this story.
If anyone is offended by the premise of the story, or by explicit sexual
acts, please do not read any further.
Games With Stefan
by eddyriha
Chapter #7-How It All Began
The following is an account, as best I can remember it, of how our games
began. Most of it is from my perspective, for obvious reasons. If he
disagrees with this account, Stefan will have to tell his own version of
all this, and maybe someday he will.
>From my earliest memories, I have always watched other people's hands and
feet. Since I usually sees shoes instead of feet, my attention is normally
on hands-and I can often a lot about a person by his hands. Certain kinds
of hands lead me instinctively to trust that person; other kinds cause me
never to be able to trust him. I can't quantify this sense. I've tried
over the years to understand this instinct, but have thus far been
unsuccessful. One thing I can say: those people who chew their fingernails
or at least trim them regularly have far better chance of gaining that
trust than people who grow their nails long.
I first became fully aware of my focus on people's hands during
kindergarten, when I suddenly found myself surrounded with many new hands
to observe. That summer, after school was over, was the first I spent in a
neighborhood where kids roamed freely up and down the street-though my
parents kept me restricted then to my own yard, that didn't prevent other
kids from coming by to play with me. One of those was Tommy, a
straw-haired boy my age who lived at the other end of our street. Tommy
was always playing sports, and I who was bigger and slower than most of the
kids on the street was both attracted to his athleticism and repulsed by it
at the same time. That one afternoon he rode his bike up to my
driveway-and for the first time, I saw his bare feet. They were tanned
like the rest of him-and simply beautiful. They seemed to glow in the
sunlight, almost as if they were themselves the source of that glow.
>From that moment on, I wanted to see those feet every chance I could. Or
even a little of his leg. At night, when I would try to sleep, I would
daydream about scenarios in which I could get Tommy to show me his feet.
Of course, I was way too shy ever to act on any of them, even if Tommy
would have been interested. But as I snuggled under the covers, I imagined
getting Tommy by himself, sometimes at my house, but other times in the
edge of the woods behind our neighborhood. I would hold Tommy to my chest
and slowly pull off his sneakers and socks and behold those beautiful,
those perfect feet. I wasn't sure these were good and healthy dreams, for
they made me have to pee-or that's what I thought when I felt my dick go
stiff, as it always did whenever I daydreamed of Tommy's feet. I wasn't
sure if that was a good feeling, but over time I kept dwelling on that
feeling and letting my stories go further and further.
>From that point, when I was six, until around my eighth birthday, Tommy
and I became friends. We built models together and played indoor games,
but no outdoor sports-I couldn't compete with him in any of those, at least
not in those days. I found myself taking in mental pictures of his hands,
his face, the back of his neck, all the parts of his body I could see. And
I spent those going-to-sleep times imagining the parts I couldn't see. And
those dreams soon involved ruses that involved Tommy becoming naked-and
knowing he would never knowingly stay naked for me, I soon worked in some
ropes and tape, to keep Tommy trussed up so I could examine his feet, his
bound hands, his boy dick. The part that most frightened me was his ass-I
wasn't exactly sure what part it would play in the games I was imagining,
but over the time I was friends with Tommy, I found myself gradually
thinking less of his feet and more about his dick and his ass.
As often happens with young boys, Tommy and I drifted apart as our
interests began to be different. By the time I was ten, after I'd hung out
awhile with Mike, who was two years older but pretended that meant
something (he also had a funny smell that was both fascinating and
repellent), I was wishing I had a new friend like Tommy had been: someone I
could dream about. Enter Stefan. His parents moved into the new house
across the street at the end of the summer I turned ten. He was just
eight, a shorter, energetic mop-haired boy who impulsively introduced
himself to me one evening in my own front yard. At the time, he didn't
trim or clean his fingernails, and he was a complete brat. There was
something cute about him, but he was more annoying and persistent than
anything else.
In those days some of us kids were building forts in the woods. Tree
forts, underground forts, above ground forts-if it could be imagined, we'd
try to build it, so long as we could pilfer the building supplies from the
construction sites on the next street. Stefan was always coming over and
wanting to play in my fort, and he wanted to be a part of everything I did.
So one day I had had enough of him, and I decided on something that would
get rid of the pest, once and for all.
"I'm afraid you can't be a part of this fort," I said to him. "You haven't
been properly initiated."
"What's that mean?"
"It means you aren't a part of the secret club that built and runs these
forts." Of course, I was making all this up as I went along, but that was
part of the game, wasn't it?
"Well, I want to be initiated." He was quite insistent on that point. So
I had to take him deeper into the woods, to an abandoned underground fort I
would later name "Sesame." Not after the street, mind you, but after the
story of Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves, in which the cave opens when the
words "Open Sesame" are spoken. (At least, that was the version we read in
school.) The name "Sesame" appeared to come from the fact that there was
an "opening" in the ground, for this had been an underground fort which had
lost its roof and thus remained simply a big hole. But, for me, "Sesame"
referred to another kind of opening that first occurred there. . . .
I had chosen this spot because it was slightly elevated, so I could see
anyone approaching from any direction. At the same time, there was a
thicket around the hole, so I could see out but no one approaching could
see in. A perfect place for what I had in mind.
When we arrived at the hole, I pushed Stefan forward. He stumbled down to
the bottom and I joined him.
"Strip!" I commanded.
He looked at me as if I'd grown a third arm.
"You said you wanted to be initiated, right?" He nodded. "So then, do as
you are told. Strip!"
Slowly, his hands fumbled at his belt, and he undid it. Then he unsnapped
and unzippered his pants. They fell down around his ankles.
He looked up to see what was next.
"I said to strip!" I insisted.
His hands went to his white briefs and fumbled along the elastic waistband.
He looked up at me, and with a voice I was to come to know quite well, he
asked, "If I show you mine, can I see yours?"
I hadn't thought about that possibility, but I wasn't about to back out
now. After all, in an initiation, as far as I knew, the leader had to
participate in the ritual, too. "Sure," I said, as I gripped the waistband
of my shorts with both hands. "One-two-three!" And both of us dropped our
shorts at the same moment, revealing two very hard boy dicks. His was over
an inch long, mine probably about two inches, but both were very hard and
were pointed toward the other.
I took a half-step toward him. I reached out with my right hand and
touched his dick. Then I gripped it and pulled him toward me. He was
looking at me, trying to figure out, without speaking, what I had in mind.
Truth be told, I didn't much know. But I knew I wanted his naked body next
to mine, and so I pulled him against me, putting my arms around him and
removing his t-shirt as I did so. He smelled like freshly laundered
clothes, with a whiff of pipe tobacco and boy sweat. I put both hands on
his ass cheeks and held him against me, his dick against mine, and we
stayed that way for several minutes. My cheek rested against his, and the
heat from our faces was so intense I felt myself melting into it.
I a few minutes, we separated, put our clothes back on, and walked quietly
back home. Except this time I held his hand and, before we left the cover
of the woods, I turned and kissed him quickly on the lips.
"We can't tell anyone about this, ever, OK?" I whispered.
He nodded. I kissed him again, and then we stepped out of the woods.
We did that same game a few more times before we took it the next step.
Part of my dreams all along had involved bondage, though I didn't know what
to call it back then. I had imagined tying up Tommy to get at his bare
feet, and slowly I began dreaming of tying up Stefan. I started keeping
some rope out at the fort, but I wasn't sure how exactly to work this new
element into our games. The tying-up parts of my dreams had come in kind
of randomly, and so they didn't have any basis in personal experience,
whereas I had seen feet and, now, Stefan's dick. My encounters with
bondage came in books-first, a torn-out section of an adult novel my friend
Joey had found in the woods when I was eight; he had had me read it to him,
because he couldn't read it and I was ahead of the curve in reading
ability. What I remember is that some guy had this girl in the woods and
had tied her up and was torturing her with battery acid. It was creepy,
but at the same time, as I read it I found myself going stiff. Not because
of the scene and the girl, but because I was reading this really intense
scene to another guy who clearly was getting excited by it. The second
kind of bondage came in a handful of old Hardy Boys mysteries and in Karin
^┴nckarsv^╩rd's novel The Mysterious Schoolmaster, in which the boy hero,
Michael, is discovered tied up and gagged in the school basement, having
been left there by the bad guys. Not only that, but that episode is one of
the handful illustrated throughout the book. That kind of picture prompted
me to imagine practicing that kind of thing, and as I would discover,
Stefan was a most willing subject.
One day during that next summer, when I was eleven and Stefan nine, he had
been acting up, totally pissing me off and bugging me. I don't remember
what he said or did to anger me, but I ran to the fort, grabbed the rope I
had stowed there, and ran off down the trail in pursuit. He was never that
fast a runner, and I caught him pretty quickly. I grabbed his arms behind
him and wrapped the rope around, tying it as tight as I could. When he
started to shout, I pulled my bandanna from my pocket and stuffed it in his
mouth. Then I used my greater weight to bring him to the ground, where I
wrapped the rope around his ankles, though I didn't tie it yet.
Being thus in total control of Stefan, I found myself harder than I'd ever
been in my life. I knew this was what I wanted, but it did scare me-how
easy it had been to subdue my friend. No matter how angry I had been, was
this what I really wanted?
He was gasping a little in the gag, so I pulled it out of his mouth.
"What are you doing?" he asked. "What kind of game is this?"
"This is the game you deserve, my slave," I heard myself saying. "This is
what you get when you piss me off."
"What will you do to me?"
"What do you think I will do?"
He was silent for a moment. "You will probably take my pants off," he said
finally. "Then you'll do other things to me."
"Damn right," I replied. Actually, until he spoke, I hadn't been sure what
I'd do next. We were not that far from Sesame, but I was facing the other
direction, so I had not been thinking of that exact plan. Regardless, I
slipped the ropes off his ankles and stood him up, making him walk toward
the abandoned underground fort. Once there, I tied the loose end of the
rope to one of the stronger trees of the surrounding thicket. This kept
Stefan from moving too far in any direction, as he couldn't get enough
footing to climb out of the pit, and yet there was enough slack so I could
have some fun with him.
I pulled off his sneakers and socks, which we had usually left on during
our stripping games. I had wanted to see his feet, but had rarely had the
opportunity. As I expected, Stefan had beautiful feet, perfectly shaped
and smooth. Except that his toenails were long. I slapped his face, which
totally surprised him. "Look at these toes!" I snapped at him. "Your
toenails are like fricking girl toenails!"
I don't think I'd ever seen him blush before. "Sorry," he mumbled.
I slapped his face again. "Address me as your King," I said. I had been
reading stories of King Arthur and of Robin Hood, and so kings naturally
came to mind. "Say it right, my slave."
"Sorry, my King," he mumbled. "I won't let it happen again."
"Make sure you don't," I replied. "Tomorrow I want to see those toenails
cut short, and I want you to keep them that way every single day. Is that
clear?"
"Yes, my King."
I then undid his belt and slipped down his corduroys. His spindly
legs-there's no better word to describe them back then-were still hairless
and smooth, and I ran my fingers over them, reveling in the softness of his
skin. I was enjoying the control I had over him, his willingness to
submit. Then my fingers went under the elastic of his briefs, pulling
gently on the fabric until I had exposed the tip of his dick, which was
hard as ever. I let the elastic snap back, holding his dick in place. I
rubbed my finger over the surface of the head, feeling its smooth and silky
texture. It was the first time I'd ever had the opportunity to explore
another boy's dick in detail, and I was not in a hurry. I rubbed my finger
along the wrinkly skin beneath the head.
Then I did something which, in retrospect, surprises me. I bent down and
kissed the tip of his dick. It twitched suddenly at the touch of my lips,
and I kissed it again.
I don't know what moved me to do it, but I licked the tip. It tasted good,
salty, but not gross, like I would have thought if I had been thinking at
the time. I licked it again, then moved the waistband down and licked
along the underside of his dick. He was gasping and moaning, and I could
tell he didn't know whether to relax or to try to get away from me. But I
didn't give him the option: I sucked his dick into my mouth and held it
there, my saliva running down the shaft and onto his balls. I wasn't sure
what I was doing, but Stefan sure began liking it. He kept thrusting his
hips toward me face, trying to get his dick further in. But his was small
at the time, and so it wasn't much more than a mouthful. I sucked on it,
ran my tongue around the head, then he started jerking around-what I later
realized was a dry orgasm.
When he had calmed down again, I released his dick and asked him, "Did that
feel good?"
His eyes were closed. "Yeah, my King," he said, almost purring his words.
"Fuck, that felt totally awesome!"
"OK, now it's my turn." I knelt over his face and lowered my erect dick to
his mouth. He paused a moment, licked his lips, looked up at me.
"Do I have to, my King?" he asked in a small voice.
"What do you think, my slave?" I demanded. "I just did it for you. Open
your damn mouth!"
He did. I popped my dick in his mouth and he closed on it. "Owwww!!!!" I
shouted. "You bit me, you asshole!" I slapped his face three or four
times, and he released my dick. "No teeth, you fucker!" I said. "You bite
me again and I'll beat the shit out of you." I knew I wouldn't have to
carry out that threat, but at the moment I was angry enough to have done
it.
Stefan closed his lips around my dick and tried his hardest not to touch it
again with his teeth. He brushed the dick with his front teeth once or
twice, but no damage done. I pushed my dick as far into his mouth as I
could, then pulled back, trying to imitate some kind of instinctive rhythm
I guessed must be a part of the process. In a few moments of that I began
to feel something intense in my dick, and it began to spasm and buck and
rock in Stefan's mouth. His open eyes questioned silently, and I nodded.
"That felt awesome!" I whispered as I pulled my wet dick out of his mouth.
I lay out on him, placing my arms around his neck and feeling his warmth
against my skin. I kissed his neck, his cheek, his lips. "You are so
fucking amazing," I murmured in his ear. "I love playing these games with
you."
That was how our games began. There were other stages in their
development, which I'll describe later, as we discovered how to do more
things with and to each other. It would be much later that I learned that
what we'd done that day was called "oral sex." Funny how sometimes boys
can discover something before they know it has a name. . . .
One thing that did develop immediately from the game I just described: the
next morning, when Stefan came over to my yard to kick around a soccer
ball, I observed that his fingernails were neatly trimmed, as were his
toenails. As much as the adventures at Sesame were awesome, that morning
when I saw Stefan's obedience in such a small matter of personal hygiene I
knew Stefan had fully submitted. I was his King, and he was my slave.